Take Anything
by Dark Caustic
Summary: It shouldn't have started here. On Christmas.


It shouldn't have started here.

On Christmas. Well, actually, a few hours past Christmas.

With limbs heavy with eggnog, a little loose but not up into that loopy haze of alcohol yet.

And it should _not_ have started here.

But it did.

It started with the space between beds and Sam on his side, looking across the aisle at Dean, staring up at the ceiling, also not asleep. Not even pretending. Eyes wide open.

And, really, it should not have started here.

But Sam whimpers, honestly whimpers and Dean looks over and Sam's going to cry. Isn't yet, but Dean's known him long enough to know that he's going to any minute.

"I can't believe you're going to leave me," Sam says. Because face it, that's the truth and they can play make believe cheery Christmas all they want and the fact of the matter is still there, only now it's hidden under a layer of tinsel and booze.

Dean can't say anything that hasn't already been said. Can't say, _how was I supposed to live without you?_ Can't say he's sorry. Can't say he gets it, even though he does, oh how he does.

Then Sam's throwing off the blankets and tossing his arm over his face and Dean can hear him snuffling, that space right before crying. "This can't really be happening," Sam gasps.

Dean would say yes, it can be, it's actually not that abnormal for them and their lives but he doesn't. Cause now Sam is saying something else.

"Can't you just? Can't you… just." Doesn't finish that sentence but now he's looking at Dean, two pinpricks of light in the darkness where his eyes reflect the neon sign outside.

And Dean finds he doesn't need the end of that sentence to know what it means.

"Yeah, Sammy, yeah," he says, throws back his own blankets and cross that gap between them.

"Dean," Sam pleads, reaches out and grabs him by the hand.

Dean goes willingly into the sheets and wraps his arms around his little brother. "I got you," he says, smoothes his free hand through Sam's hair. "I got you."

Sam burrows in. Like he used to do when they were kids and he was scared. Been a long time since he's held Sammy like this.

But it's Christmas and his world is going to be over soon and they're masked under the excuse of booze, even if neither really drank that much – Dean'll take it.

He'll take anything, nowadays.

Like the silky feel of Sam's skin where Dean's hand is resting on the nape of his neck. And the comforting rise and fall of Sam's chest, reminds him of a summer when he was sixteen and they stayed at a motel on the beach and he could hear the waves rolling in and out. Sam breathes in rhythm like that. Like the sea.

Sam's hand snakes it's way over his belly and clings onto his hip and like a deathbed confession he whispers, "I need you."

Dean can hear all the desperation and implications in that but doesn't answer back because he's already shown how much he needs Sam with a crossroad's deal he'll never take back.

Then his little brother is burrowing in again and getting them as flush as he can, like he needs to remember every little piece of Dean he can have right now and he's begging, begging, "Don't go. Don't leave me. Please, Dean, don't go."

It's all Dean can do not to crack and crumble to dust right here in a hotel bed as he just clings to Sammy all the harder, till he can feel his fingertips digging into muscle, till he's not sure there won't be bruises in the morning.

And somehow, late, later, when Sam's cried himself dry and Dean has barely managed to keep himself together enough not to follow, they kiss.

It's the first time. Dean never knew he could want Sammy like that, but he feels like his heart has been splayed open and every ounce of affection he ever had for anything is easily cut out and replaced with another bit of love and devotion for Sammy.

He'll let that boy take anything he wants, have anything he wants, as long as he keeps living. As long as he keeps loving Dean.

There aren't a lot of words, after that kiss.

There's no room for them.

Dawn breaks across the window, eventually, and Sam keeps his hands locked around his big brother's waist, as though he could anchor him there. Keep him safe from demon dogs that already know his scent.

And he knows, it shouldn't have started here.

On Christmas.

While time is growing short.


End file.
